Fool by Christopher Moore

The Barnes & Noble Review

Writers as eclectic as Angela Carter, Jane Smiley, and Edward Bond have contended with King Lear's fretful elements, retelling Shakespeare's tragedy with twin Cordelias, a straightforward Goneril lacking guts and gumption, and an onstage autopsy. But the satirical novelist Christopher Moore has zeroed in on the Fool's perspective, adding references from Monty Python, Airplane, and The Office into his errant and irreverent quarto.

This referential riffing is not as sacrilegious as it may seem. Let's not forget that Shakespeare himself lifted plot elements and language from Spenser's Faerie Queene, John Higgins, Anglican bishop Samuel Harsnett, and Michel de Montaigne -- all authors who emerged less than two decades before Lear. So a nod to a 30-year-old cinematic classic ("And don't call me cousin") is reasonable under the circumstances.

And Moore certainly has the wry and wild theatricality to take the stage. Here is a writer who fused vampires, turkey bowling, and illegal immigrants into an oddly endearing novel, Bloodsucking Fiends. His religious send-up, Lamb, featured a forgotten apostle who had the hots for Mary, along with a tipsy Jesus who explained why bunnies were associated with Easter. When Moore has drifted down these zany and often iconoclastic byways, his boat floats like a smooth schooner, with the promise of a USS Vonnegut or an HMS Pratchett eventually emerging from the estuary.

But Fool is a makeshift kayak built from stray driftwood and second-rate lumber. The chief problem with Moore's 11th novel is that he severely underestimates his comic instincts. While the novel contains plenty of bawdy barbs and lowbrow riffs, it reads like the work of a man intimidated by the grand possibilities whispering to him from the waters.

There are clear signs throughout the book that Moore was exasperated by the source material, and these frustrations are confirmed in an afterword in which Moore confesses that, after a considerable intake of film and theatrical performances, "a person can only take so much whining before he wants to sign up for the Committee to Make Elder Abuse an Olympic Sport."

Aside from the many Riverside Shakespeare–like footnotes serving up mock explanations for such apparently abstruse terms as "décolletage" (defined here as "the road to Hooterville") and "balls up," Moore spends much of his novel kvetching about Lear's tone and internal logic. Moore expands this conceit by having the Fool -- here, named Pocket -- devising many of the manipulative ploys carried out by other characters. Of Edmund the Bastard's epistolary scheming, the Earl of Kent asks the perfectly reasonable question, "Why didn't he simply slay his brother?" Of Lear's constant cries to the gods, Pocket observes, "When pressed for a curse or a blessing he will sometimes invoke gods from a half-dozen pantheons, just to be sure to catch the ear of whichever might be on watch that day." And Kent's stint in the stocks gives Moore the liberty to roll out an array of sodomy jokes. These saucy cracks aren't entirely out of line, given that Shakespeare had Kent telling Gloucester, "I cannot conceive you," a line that has been interpreted any number of ways by licentious scholars. Given such contextual attention, what's surprising is that Moore misses a wonderful comic opportunity to explain why the Fool and Cordelia never appeared on stage together.

While Moore's cranky quibbles are often amusing, he undercuts these gibes with a patchwork storyline composed of incongruous parts. He equips Pocket with daggers on his back, throws in a ghost who pops into the story every so often to prophesize doom, and even enlists the three witches from Macbeth to intervene. Such hodgepodge assemblies have worked for Moore before, but the approach is disastrous here, because the real Lear's taut togetherness remains a constant shadow. A tedious aside into Pocket's early days in a nunnery might be good for a few forgettable locker room laughs, but it can't possibly compare to the original's memorable intrigue.

When a novel becomes this problematic, it is probably not a good idea for the author to include a seven-page note revealing how his editor bullied him into writing about Lear's Fool while doped up on sleep medication. It is also not a good idea for the author to boast about how he has paraphrased numerous plays "largely to throw off reviewers, who will be reluctant to cite and criticize passages of my writing." This reviewer, who has kept up a somewhat embarrassing obsession with Shakespeare over the years and who has remained mostly mum on this because of a few regrettable experiences with needlessly intense SCA members, expresses no reservations whatsoever in noting a few of Moore's many references: the Duke Orsino's opening line from Twelfth Night slightly adjusted to "If music you must make, play on," Hamlet's "slings and arrows" now outrageously uttered by Gloucester, and Richard III's "winter of our discontent" transplanted to a backstage intermission.

Much of this is fun. But with Moore mired in nods to the Bard, his pleasantly eccentric voice is mostly lost. Moore does manage to sneak in "a pork shoulder the size of a toddler." And a carnal consideration bears "the auditory effect of a bull elk trying to balance a wildcat on a red-hot poker." When a writer can dash off such lively language, why would he lack the confidence or the ambition to merge his talents with Shakespeare?

Perhaps an answer to this question can be found in a reference to a "rosebud asterisk" matching up to Vonnegut's infamous anatomical shorthand in Breakfast of Champions. Whether this nod to a more obvious influence than Shakespeare represents a confession or an anxiety is subject to a psychological question beyond my ken, but one thing remains certain: A novelist, however talented, cannot develop his voice when he is constantly comparing himself to the greats who have come before.

There may very well be a grand galleon sailing out of Moore's slaphappy port in the future, with a raucous crew bellowing salty sea shanties and a confident skipper at the helm. But this won't happen unless Moore learns to love what he's skewering and trust what he's got. To write anything less is to be led off the cliff, stumbling as blindly as Gloucester. It's the stuff of tragedy. --Edward Champion

Edward Champion is a Brooklyn-based writer. His work has appeared in the Chronicle of Higher Education, The Los Angeles Times, and other distinguished and disreputable publications. He runs the cultural web site http://www.edrants.com.

From the Publisher

Christopher Moore, much beloved scrivener and peerless literary jester, now takes on no less than the legendary Bard himself (with the utmost humility and respect) with a twisted and insanely funny tale of a moronic monarch and his deceitful daughters, as seen through the eyes of a man wearing a codpiece and bells on his head.

Pocket has been Lear's cherished fool for years. So naturally Pocket is at his brainless, elderly liege's side when Lear demands that his kids swear to him their undying love and devotion. Of course Goneril and Regan are only too happy to brownnose Dad. But Cordelia believes that her father's request is kind of . . . well . . . stupid, and her blunt honesty ends up costing her her rightful share of the kingdom and earns her a banishment to boot.

Well now the bangers and mash have really hit the fan. And the only person who can possibly make things right . . . is Pocket. Now he's going to have do some very fancy maneuvering—cast some spells, start a war or two—the usual stuff—to get Cordelia back into Daddy Lear's good graces, to derail the fiendish power plays of Cordelia's twisted sisters, and to shag every lusciously shaggable wench who's amenable to shagging along the way.

Pocket may be a fool . . . but he's definitely not an idiot.

The Washington Post - Michael Dirda

Fool is exuberantly, tirelessly, brazenly profane, vulgar, crude, sexist, blasphemous and obscene…If you like Benny Hill's leering music-hall routines or Terry Pratchett's satirical Discworld novels, or George MacDonald Fraser's rumbustious Flashman adventures, not to overlook the less well known comic fiction of, say, Tom Holt and Tom Sharpe, you're almost certain to enjoy Christopher Moore's latest romp.

Publishers Weekly

Here's the Cliff Notes you wished you'd had for King Lear-the mad royal, his devious daughters, rhyming ghosts and a castle full of hot intrigue-in a cheeky and ribald romp that both channels and chides the Bard and "all Fate's bastards." It's 1288, and the king's fool, Pocket, and his dimwit apprentice, Drool, set out to clean up the mess Lear has made of his kingdom, his family and his fortune-only to discover the truth about their own heritage. There's more murder, mayhem, mistaken identities and scene changes than you can remember, but bestselling Moore (You Suck) turns things on their head with an edgy 21st-century perspective that makes the story line as sharp, surly and slick as a game of Grand Theft Auto. Moore confesses he borrows from at least a dozen of the Bard's plays for this buffet of tragedy, comedy and medieval porn action. It's a manic, masterly mix-winning, wild and something today's groundlings will applaud. (Feb.)

Deb West - Library Journal

In his 11th novel, Moore (Bloodsucking Fiends) has Pocket, King Lear's jester, retelling and reshaping Shakespeare's renowned tragedy in the form of a bawdy comedy. Scottish actor/singer Euan Morton does a fine job of voicing the irrepressible Pocket as he plots to save Cordelia from her sisters' machinations, delivering Pocket's many playful jibes with effective comic timing. Numerous other characters are also well defined by his reading. Strongly recommended for those who appreciate high humor, though not for Shakespeare purists. [Audio clip available through www.harperaudio.com; the Morrow hc, a New York Times best seller, was recommended for "fans of Moore's warped sense of humor," LJ12/08.-Ed.]

Kirkus Reviews

Moore's 11th novel (You Suck, 2007, etc.) re-imagines Shakespeare's most austere tragic masterpiece with a transgressive brio that will have devoted bardolators howling for the miscreant author's blood. It's the venerable tale of 13th-century British King Lear (who's sometimes Christian, sometimes pagan) and the authoritarian vanity that alienates him from his three daughters, his kingdom and eventually his wits. It's narrated by the eponymous King's Fool, known as Pocket (for his diminutive size), who waxes profanely about his upbringing among monks and nuns, his cordial relationship with Lear's youngest daughter Cordelia, carnal dalliances with her elder sisters Goneril and Regan and his quick-witted attempts to foment and manage civil war and thus keep Lear's embattled kingdom from fully self-destructing. Ghastly jokes and groan-worthy puns shamelessly abound, but there are inspired sequences: a splendidly tasteless revision of the play's opening scene, in which Lear unwisely solicits declarations of his daughters' love for him; cameo appearances by a female ghost given to cryptic rhyming prophecies, as well as the three witches better known as agents of change in "Macbeth"; and a very funny impromptu arraignment at which Pocket is accused of shagging "innocent" Princess Regan. One does appreciate the characterization of Goneril's effete steward Oswald as a "rodent-faced muck-sucker." And surely readers can be forgiven for lamenting a mere passing reference to the play "Green Eggs and Hamlet," or saluting disguised hero Edgar's free translation of the Latin phrase "Carpe diem" as "Fish of the Day."Less may be more, but it isn't Moore. Wretched excess doth have power to charm, andthere are great reeking oodles of it strewn throughout these irreverent pages.

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Fool

Chapter One

Always a Bloody Ghost

"Tosser!" cried the raven.

There's always a bloody raven.

"Foolish teachin' him to talk, if you ask me," said the sentry.

"I'm duty-bound foolish, yeoman," said I. I am, you know? A fool. Fool to the court of Lear of Britain. "And you are a tosser," I said.

"Piss off!" said the raven.

The yeoman took a swipe at the bird with his spear and the great black bird swooped off the wall and went cawing out over the Thames. A ferryman looked up from his boat, saw us on the tower, and waved. I jumped onto the wall and bowed—at your fucking service, thank you. The yeoman grumbled and spat after the raven.

There have always been ravens at the White Tower. A thousand years ago, before George II, idiot king of Merica, destroyed the world, there were ravens here. The legend says that as long as there are ravens at the Tower, England will stand strong. Still, it may have been a mistake to teach one to talk.

"The Earl of Gloucester approaches!" cried a sentry on the west wall. "With his son Edgar and the bastard Edmund!"

The yeoman by me grinned. "Gloucester, eh? Be sure you do that bit where you play a goat and Drool plays the earl mistaking you for his wife."

"That would be unkind," said I. "The earl is newly widowed."

"You did it the last time he was here and she was still warm in the grave."

"Well, yes. A service that—trying to shock the poor wretch out of his grief, wasn't it?"

"Good show, too. The way you was bleatin' I thought ol' Drool was givin' it to you right proper up the bung."

I made a note to shove the guard off the wall whenopportunity presented.

"Heard he was going to have you assassinated, but he couldn't make a case to the king."

"Gloucester's a noble, he doesn't need a case for murder, just a whim and a blade."

"Not bloody likely," the yeoman said, "everyone knows the king's got a wing o'er you."

That was true. I enjoy a certain license.

"Have you seen Drool? With Gloucester here, there'll be a command performance." My apprentice, Drool—a beef-witted bloke the size of a draught horse.

"He was in the kitchen before the watch," said the yeoman.

The kitchen buzzed—the staff preparing for a feast.

"Have you seen Drool ?" I asked Taster, who sat at the table staring sadly at a bread trencher laid out with cold pork, the king's dinner. He was a thin, sickly lad, chosen, no doubt, for his weakness of constitution, and a predisposition toward dropping dead at the slightest provocation. I liked to tell him my troubles, sure that they would not travel far.

"Does this look poisoned to you?"

"It's pork, lad. Lovely. Eat up. Half the men in England would give a testicle to feast thus, and it only mid-day. I'm tempted myself." I tossed my head—gave him a grin and a bit of a jingle on the ol' hat bells to cheer him. I pantomimed stealing a bit of his pork. "After you, of course."

A knife thumped into the table by my hand.

"Back, Fool," said Bubble, the head cook. "That's the king's lunch and I'll have your balls before I'll let you at it."

"My balls are yours for the asking, milady," said I. "Would you have them on a trencher, or shall I serve them in a bowl of cream, like peaches?"

Bubble harrumphed, yanked her knife from the table and went back to gutting a trout at the butcher block, her great bottom rolling like thunderclouds under her skirt as she moved.

"You're a wicked little man, Pocket," said Squeak, waves of freckles riding o'er her shy smile. She was second to the cook, a sturdy, ginger-haired girl with a high giggle and a generous spirit in the dark. Taster and I often passed pleasant afternoons at the table watching her wring the necks of chickens.

Pocket is my name, by the way. Given to me by the abbess who found me on the nunnery doorstep when I was a tiny babe. True, I am not a large fellow. Some might even say I am diminutive, but I am quick as a cat and nature has compensated me with other gifts. But wicked?

"I think Drool was headed to the princess's chambers," Squeak said.

"Aye," said Taster, glumly. "The lady sent for a cure for melancholy."

"And the git went?" Jest on his own? The boy wasn't ready. What if he blundered, tripped, fell on the princess like a millstone on a butterfly? "Are you sure?"

Bubble dropped a gutless trout into a bushel of slippery co-fishes. "Chanting, ‘Off to do ma duty,' he was. We told him you'd be looking for him when we heard Princess Goneril and the Duke of Albany was coming."

"Albany's coming?"

"Ain't he sworn to string your entrails from the chandelier?" asked Taster.

"No," corrected Squeak. "That was Duke of Cornwall. Albany was going to have his head on a pike, I believe. Pike, wasn't it, Bubble?"

"Aye, have his head on a pike. Funny thing, thinkin' about it, you'd look like a bigger version of your puppet-stick there."

"Jones," said Taster, pointing to my jester's scepter, Jones, who is, indeed, a smaller version of my own handsome countenance, fixed atop a sturdy handle of polished hickory. Jones speaks for me when even my tongue needs to exceed safe license with knights and nobles, his head pre-piked for the wrath of the dull and humorless. My finest art is oft lost in the eye of the subject.

"Yes, that would be right hilarious, Bubble—ironic imagery—like the lovely Squeak turning you on a spit over a fire, an apple up both your ends for color—although I daresay the whole castle might conflagrate in the resulting grease fire, but until then we'd laugh and laugh."